


Odds & Ends

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Drabbles, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier takes care of geralt, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Short Stories, Tumblr Prompt, and that's totally good, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: Just some bits and pieces from prompts I've had in my Tumblr asks, collected all together in one place. If you want me to write you something, drop me an ask at aloe-casia on Tumblr or bug me on here too.Who am I kidding, this is all whump.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier woke with a start. The inn was silent, or as silent as inns ever get. There was the gentle noise of chatter coming from downstairs, a noise that made the extroverted bard feel at ease in a way that the silence of the woods that Geralt so preferred never would. He looked around, calming his racing heart slightly from his sudden awakening, trying to see what had caused him to start from such a deep sleep. Immediately, he noticed the inn’s bed was empty, and his heart sped up a little bit again. Jaskier had (in a display of loving chivalry), allowed Geralt to have the bed tonight, it being too small for the two of them. The Witcher had returned from hunting some ghouls outside of town bleeding profusely, even though he had not told Jaskier immediately that there was anything wrong, instead slipping closer and closer to unconsciousness as the bard performed, until Jaskier had gone over to check whether he was drunk, at which point the Witcher had collapsed headfirst onto the table. Jaskier had, with the help of another patron of the inn, manhandled Geralt up the stairs, stitched a horrendous looking gash in his side, and tucked him under the threadbare blankets of the bed. He had lost more blood than Jaskier thought he had ever seen outside the Witcher’s body at one time before, and he was so weak he had not woken again, even as Jaskier had fallen into an uneasy rest on the floor. And yet, now the bed was empty, and Geralt was gone.

“Fuck.” Jaskier stumbled upright, scrubbing a tired hand over his face and tripping across the floor, not really looking where he was going. Geralt’s boots were gone, but his cloak rested where Jaskier had left it, and the bard imminently felt a deeper sense of concern begin to arise. It was pouring rain outside, and Geralt was very clearly weakened and unwell. The fact that he had left his cloak behind but put his boots on did not bode well. Jaskier stumbled down the stairs, shrugging his own jacket on over his shoulders as he went. He had a good idea of where the Witcher had retreated to.

~0~

“I know you too well,” Jaskier stated gently as he entered Roach’s stall, where Geralt was sitting against the wall, running a hand along his mare’s velvety nose, “But it’s freezing out, and you’re here, injured and ill, in nothing but your shirt. Time to come inside, now.”

Geralt barely looked up. His face was pale, paler than normal, and his cheekbones were encircled by bright red spots, flushing in the weak light of the torch. His eyes, bright with fever, kept sliding shut, at which point he would jerk his neck up and awaken again, resuming his stroking of Roach’s nose, which would flare softly at her master’s touch.

“Geralt,” Jaskier called, in a singsong tone so as not to surprise him, “You’re very ill, and you’ve lost a lot of blood. It’s time to come inside now.”

Geralt looked up at him then, flushed bright with fever, eyes brilliant, and beads of sweat forming on his forehead and dripping his pale cheeks.

“M’so cold, Jaskier,” he slurred, settling into a rhythmic shivering.

“I know, Geralt. Come inside so we can get you warmed up.”

“But…the ghouls?”

“Gone. You killed them. There’s nothing for you to worry about now.”

Geralt nodded and allowed his head to sag forward, hair closing like a curtain around his face. Gently, Jaskier took the Witcher’s hands in his own. The long fingers trembled and clenched in pain, shivering in time with the rest of his body. Jaskier held them to his own chest, allowing them to absorb his body’s own warmth, Geralt gripping tightly to his shirt and leaning his sweaty head into the bard’s chest as well.

“Oh, Geralt, you’re trembling,” Jaskier whispered, wrapping his arms around his friend.

“It’s so…fucking cold.” Was the only reply the bard got. 

“I know, dearest,” Jaskier knew Geralt would never let him use pet names like this normally, but now, with the Witcher a trembling mess and subsiding into his arms, he felt it would be alright, “We’ll get you warmed up with lots of blankets when we get back inside. Does that sound good?”

Geralt nodded numbly, weakly, his hands shaking more violently against Jaskier’s chest. Using strength he didn’t know he possessed, Jaskier helped Geralt sling an arm over his shoulders, and slowly led him inside.

“Just a little further now,” he said, softly opening the door and helping Geralt lower himself onto the bed, “Now just focus on getting warm and well again.”

Jaskier covered his Witcher gently with blankets, and took one of his shivering, trembling hands into his own.

“I’ll be here for you when you wake up,” he whispered softly, and blew out the candle by the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for this ask on my Tumblr:
> 
> With the full fury of summer mercilessly descending upon us again, I can't help but think how our mostly northern hero would fare if he was to go further south than he's ever been. What with Geralt's milky white complexion and heavy armour, wonder what would happen? :D

Before Geralt had left Kaer Morhen for the first time, Vesemir had warned him. He had been warned, and yet he had continued South anyways, so really Geralt had no one to blame but himself for the current situation he found himself in. Don’t go past Toussaint, Vesemir had told him. At least not for the first year, while he was still healing and his skin and hair was still adapting to its recent significant loss of pigment as a result of the Trials. And damned if he shouldn’t have been more careful, followed Vesemir’s advice to the letter. But here he was, a Northerner by blood, still healing from his second bout of Trials, all white skin and pale hair under the beating, harsh sun of Korathan desert. He had wanted to see Zerrikania, wanted to experience the legendary warriors and the great sand plains for himself. It was a foolish dream, he had known that before he even set out. But a recent contract to hunt down several werewolves in Cintra had left his pockets heavy with silver, possibly the heaviest they had ever been, and he had thought it was fair to indulge himself, just this once. Vesemir had warned him against indulgence, too. From now on, he would obey Vesemir’s every warning. If he lived, of course.

The air was hot, stiflingly so, and Geralt could feel his chest constricting under his leather armour. He couldn’t take it off, though. Vesemir had warned him against ever taking it off, and after ignoring Vesemir’s previous warnings had led to this shit situation in the first place, Geralt had decided never to ignore the fencing master’s advice again. Besides, he had nowhere to put it. He had left Roach at an inn in the mountains, worrying for her health in the heat. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he should have worried more for his own.

Achingly, Geralt sat himself down against a rock. His pale skin was hot to the touch, burning, boiling, and he felt so ill. He had stopped sweating a while ago, now his skin was just hot and dry, his mouth so dry that it was getting difficult to open, even to breathe. There was a rolling in his stomach that at first Geralt thought was just an illusion; he was probably delirious, until he ended up puking all over the rock before he really even realized it was going to happen. He felt miserable, clammy, and every muscle in his body was pulled taut, like he had been stretched out to dry in the sun. Perhaps he could stop here, rest a bit, take off his armour. Then he could gather his strength enough to turn around, go back to the mountains, get some water. 

Geralt’s fingers were trembling and dry; he couldn’t even find the clasps on his bracers, let alone begin thinking about taking off the rest of his armour. He would roast out here, he thought. Like the chickens Vesemir had cooked for him and Eskel during the winter, roasted over a spit with the skin on. Ye Gods, he must truly be delirious to be comparing himself to that.

For a long while, Geralt faded in and out of consciousness. His head ached abominably, and he couldn’t stop vomiting, even though there was nothing left in his stomach except for acid, which made his dry throat and mouth hurt all the more. Every muscle in his body pulled tight and cramped, the way they sometimes did after a hard day training or a difficult fight. Geralt felt as though he was being mummified alive, something he had heard of the Zerrikanians doing with unwelcome travellers. He supposed he was saving them the trouble, as he gritted his teeth and rode out another bout of excruciating muscle cramps. For the first time since his Trials, Geralt wished to pass out, to relieve the pain, if even for a bit. The light hurt his eyes, and he was so damnably thirsty.

\----

When Geralt awoke again, there was a dappled pattern of light falling across his face, leaving some parts of it uncomfortably hot while others were blissfully cooled by shade. His skin ached and burned, and every muscle in his body was painful and weak. He trembled.

A dark hand appeared above him, holding what looked like a clay cup, although Geralt couldn’t be sure. His vision flickered and wavered in front of him like a mirage. There was a voice, instructing him gently, but he couldn’t understand what it said. He realized belatedly that he was no longer wearing his armour or his clothes, just laying under a blanket made of scratchy, itchy wool. The hand hovered above him, and dripped a little water between his lips, which he licked up pitifully. Geralt felt like his skin was cracking all over, breaking at the seams. Someone was washing his face with a cool cloth, and to his eternal embarrassment he whimpered in relief. His whole body ached, and he felt so very ill. Nausea came on unbidden, and he felt someone lifting his head so he could retch over the side of what must have been a bed. However, he was simply too sick to care, too sick to even really understand what was happening. His consciousness filtered in and out, jolting him back to awareness with every loud noise or strong smell that assaulted his senses. The whole tent, or wherever this place was, smelled strongly of highly aromatic spices Geralt had only ever encountered in exotic markets during his travel in the North. They were abrasive on his sensitive nostrils, and kept jerking him back awake. The cloth ceiling above him shifted and swayed. He wasn’t sure, but he might have been sick again. He was too fevered, too tired. The last thing he thought was that he was never going to take Vesemir’s advice for granted again.

\---- 

When Geralt awoke again, he was alone. The tent ceiling which had dominated his blurry vision for the uncounted previous hours was gone, replaced instead by a starry sky which stretched for miles in every direction, or at least as far as Geralt could turn his head before his neck began to ache horrifically. He licked his lips, and found someone had left a water skin at his side, which he sipped from gratefully, dragging his sore, exhausted body to a sitting position. He vaguely remembered there being a rock, back when he had first truly become ill, and he was surprised to find that same rock now bracing his back. When he scented the air and glanced around, there was no sign of who had set up the tent, nor left the water skin. Geralt was utterly alone under the canopy of stars.

Normally, Geralt would have wondered what had happened, who had helped him and then left before he could so much as give his thanks. But he was still too ill, his head spun too much, and he was damnably thirsty. Every muscle in his body was trembling and weak, a sign of the many spasms he remembered experiencing. The stars began to fade and the sun rose, and Geralt just lay against the rock, trying to let the cool night air soothe his burning, pale skin. His neck was burnt from the sun, as were his hands, and although they would heal quickly the blistering skin was uncomfortable.

Eventually, he felt a bit less ill, a bit less dizzy, and managed to haul himself to his feet and limp off, back towards the mountains, towards Roach, away from the first and last time he would indulge his own selfish desire to see something more than what he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to fulfill your ask on my Tumblr @aloe-casia or here!


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